


Dreams and Prophecy

by Rosie_Dayze



Category: Inhumans (TV 2017), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Kissing, Nightmares, Other, Reader-Insert, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-25 15:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18577210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Dayze/pseuds/Rosie_Dayze
Summary: After discovering that you have superpowers you have to contend with budding feelings for Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch.





	Dreams and Prophecy

**Author's Note:**

> This you-fic assumes that you have superpowers. I generated a random set of powers using a generator in order to come up with the skill set and am kinda pleased at how it turned out. Hope you all like!

Things float when she dreams. For the first couple of weeks that you lived at the Avengers compound it was a little disconcerting. You'd roll over, half awake, and see that the glass of water you'd left on your nightstand was hovering steadily alongside your cell phone and that paperback you kept forgetting to read. Then, after nothing fell, or broke, or got slung into your face, you just decided that that's just the kind of thing that happens when a wall is all that separates your room from that of a witch. 

Witch? Was it okay to call her that? It fit, certainly. But sometimes people kinda liked to make it sound like a bad thing. Sort of like, Inhuman, which, as it turns out, is exactly what you are. Not that you'd known that. You'd been going about life, mostly content with your lot in life. And then, one fateful day, your entire world changed. It had been such a small thing; inconsequential at the time, important in retrospect. Your life hadn't been in jeopardy. You weren't in the middle of some life-changing, traumatic event. You'd just been walking down the street, feeling a little lost, and wishing you could read the sign; if only it hadn't been so damn bright. And then, like magic, the light had shifted. You'd felt it like a tickle behind your eyes, a heat in the tips of your fingers. You'd chalked it up to a bit of sun-sickness and went about your way. 

But then it had happened again. And again. Subtle shifts in light gave way to full-on apparations that depicted your daydreams. Nothing like everyone at work knowing that you were totally thinking about smooching that hotty from Game of Thrones. 

It hadn't taken long for Tony Stark to find you, and bring you into the Avengers Homebase for testing. Light-Manipulation, he'd called it. The ability to bend, alter, and control the visible spectrum of light. He'd dubbed you The Illusionist, slapped an Avengers stamp on you and set you up at the compound. Your days were split into two parts. The first was training, where you learned how to test and push the limits of your Inhuman power. You learned how to bend light in such a way that you vanished from view. And how to change your appearance and those of others. Your strongest skill, however, was the ability to create believable, if soundless, projections. You were trained physically, and mentally, to withstand all the crap that might happen to you while opperating as a masked vigilante. 

You'd been doing just fine (mostly) until they'd decided to set you up with Wanda as a training partner. The moment she'd walked into the room you'd felt your mouth go dry. Your knees went squishy. No one, you'd decided, should look that good in jeans and a T-shirt. But there she was, with her hair pulled back into a loose knot, and green eyes that seemed to stare directly into you. 

"Alright," Natasha Romanoff had said. "Let's train." 

You'd done terribly. Steve and Nat had taken the two of you out into the real world. He'd put you in a busy street and both you and Natasha had taken turns trying to sneak up on Wanda. The assumption, of course, was that your ability to cloak yourself, paired with the ability to bend the light to change your appearance, would make you excellent at espionage and tailing. Problem was, every time Wanda even kind of looked in your direction your concentration had cracked and you started to glow. 

Glow. Seriously. Like a lightening bug. A big ol' nimbus that screamed 'look at me'. 

Fan-tastic. 

That had been two and a half weeks ago and you hadn't got much better. But Natasha had taken it upon herself to turn you into the best spy she could, and Steve wanted Wanda to be more aware of her surroundings. So the pair of you kept getting forced into situations together. 

It was a surprise you got any sleep at all, you thought as you watched the water cup continue to hover. You reached for your floating cell phone and checked the time. It was almost six in the morning. Early enough that you could get to sleep, late enough that your body was wondering when one of the Avengers was going to wake you up. 

You didn't notice the glass shaking until a drop of water fell unto your cheek. It was lukewarm and dribbled down your skin, leaving a line of sensitive skin in its wake. Your eyes darted up. The water was sloshing around in a tiny whirl inside the cup. It shook, harder and harder. A crack appeared on one side. You dive beneath your blanket just in time. You hear it shatter. The nearly forgotten paperback goes whirling through the room. The drawers of your dresser slap and creak. The blinds at your window tear. Light spills into your room. 

Then you hear the sound of Wanda's cries. Before you can even think you yak your blanket back and charge the nine steps to her room. 

You know what an inescapable nightmare looks like, and it's written all over her. She's kicked the blankets off and she is twitching and groaning. Her face is twisted up with sadness and pain. The room mirrors her fright. Drawers of red and black clothing have been tossed like phantoms across the floor. Blets slither around like snakes. Cracks decorate picture frames and glass. The bed creaks in protestation, like some great, invisible weight is pressing down on it. 

"Wanda?" you take a careful step into the room, ducking as a shoe flies out of the closet. You put what training Natasha has given you to use and treat the room like an obstacle course with Wanda as the goal. You kept your eyes fixed on her as you navigated your way past hair supplies and leather jackets. "Wanda!" 

The bedsheet seemed to spring to life as you approached. It billowed and pulsed like it was breathing. It seemed to shimmer with the red light of her magic, casting strange and lovecraftian shadows across the walls and you. You wished, not for the first time, that your ability had granted you something, anything that let you attack. The best you'd managed was blinding so that you could run away. that required, you know, eyes. Bedsheets were notorious for their lack of eyes. 

"Come on, Wanda," you muttered to yourself. "Wake up." 

The next sound she made was so close to a tear-filled sob that you dove through the creepy sheet and landed on her bed. You knee jabbed against her leg. She jerked up and out of sleep, another cry caught in her throat. 

"Hey," you said as soothingly as you could manage, "it's okay. I'm right here." 

She made a confused sound. Without her magic everywhere, it was dark. At last, something you could fix. You felt that heat of your own power rise and fill you, and you sent it out through the room, casting a soft warm glow across the bed. The light illuminated her too-pale face and sweat-soaked features. It's her eyes that bother you the most. Their green depths are filled with some haunted truth that you can't even begin to fathom. 

"Are you okay?" 

She blinked, and swallowed. "What time is it?" her voice, tinged with Serbia, is cracked and dry. 

"Early." 

She looked around the room. Her confusion gave way to embarrassment. "I was dreaming." 

"You could call it that if you want." You want to reach out, touch her, offer some paltry show of comfort. But you hesitate. You aren't sure what she was dreaming, or if she wants to be touched. You've been working with her for weeks, thought about her in ways you wouldn't even confide to yourself, but you can't bring yourself to close that single gap without some kind of invitation. “Did you want to talk about it?” 

The light of your magic turns her green eyes to glass. They peer at you, cool and empty. It's a trick of hers that you've noticed, this ability to put on a mask of absolute nothingness. Usually, it fascinates you. Right then you saw it for what it really was; protection. 

“I'm sorry that I woke you,” 

“Don't worry about that. Can I get you anything?” 

She looks away, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. A little color has returned to her cheeks, but not much. Not enough that you'd be comfortable leaving her with whatever thoughts are haunting her dreams. 

“I live in Stark Tower.” She says it like a curse, like it's some ugly, terrible thing. Since you don't understand it, you stay quiet, letting her speak at her own pace. “Growing up, Stark meant bad. It meant pain and weapons and explosions.” 

To be fair, growing up Stark meant pretty much the same thing to you. But as you watch the way she continues to look off into the distant light, caught up in the memories of what was, you realize that the difference is that Stark, and everything that his company had stood for, had been the shield you'd been behind, not the weapon at your throat. 

“He's given that up.” 

“Has he?” Her gaze flicked to yours, a red light gleaming out of their depths. “He still makes weapons, he just gives them names and costumes now.” Her hand was like a phantom slicing through the air, encompassing the room and the destruction therein. 

“Oh...Wanda,” you whisper. This time you do reach out and touch her shoulder. She does not move away. “You aren't a weapon.” 

“Oh? Then what am I?” Her lips formed a grim line of defiance as if daring you to disagree. 

You could tell her. You could use every fancy word for amazing an beautiful you've ever heard but it still wouldn't express exactly how you see her. Wanda has too much beauty in too many facets to be relegated to a few words. So you do the only thing you can think of. 

With one hand you smooth out the rumpled bed sheets. With the other you beckon what little light is in the room and you start to twist it. A city street forms, reminiscent of the one where the two of you were paired together to fight. You recreate the people walking, the street vendors and their wares. You add in the cars and their bumper-kissing traffic. Every detail about that day that you can remember, you recreate. Then, when everything is just right, you add in a woman walking down the street. She is dressed in a pair of boots, worn to perfection, and an aged leather jacket. Every step is like a dance. The swing of her violin shaped hips is like music. Even the way the breeze catches her hair is an aria to her beauty. 

“Wow,” she whispers. 

Encouraged, you shift the scene. You add yourself to the moment, leaning against a light post with your face half hidden by your phone. You let the scene pick up the way you watched her that day, the fact that you couldn't keep your eyes off her. The way that the moment she turned and spotted you everything seemed to fracture and fall apart. Then you show her the next time it had happened, and the next. 

“You are powerful,” you say, lost in your display, “but that's not all you are. You are also talented, kind, and smart. You could take your power and use it to rule the world ten times over, but instead, you sign up with the one and the only group that's trying their best to keep this planet spinning.” Your illusuin shift, focuses on her face. The rendering is nearly perfect. The way her eyes can go from flat and empty to angry to amused. The way her nose crinkles when she laughs. The flutter of her hair around the roundness of her face. Every detail that has driven you mad in recent weeks. You don't even think about how honest you are being until she reaches out and touches your wrist. Her skin is cool against yours. Again, your phantom play shatters. 

“I know,” she says softly, though there is an impish tilt to her lips. “I've known for a while.” 

The way she says 'know' leaves no room for guessing her meaning. “Guess I've been kind of obvious. You make it hard to concentrate when we practice.” 

“It's not that,” she answers. There is a softness to her. All that fear and self-doubt have evaporated. “Did you know that sometimes you bend light while you sleep?” 

“Oh...oh no.” You hide your face suddenly behind your hands. Considering all of the dreams you've had about Wanda, you can only assume that she knows way too much. “I am so sorry.” 

Her hand slides down your arm, tugging lightly until your fingers drop away from your face. When you open your eyes she is much closer than she had been, mere inches away. The red of her magic is shimmering around her. 

“You came to my rescue tonight,” she says. 

“I-” 

She places a finger on your mouth, silencing you. 

“I've always been the one saving others.” 

She closes the distance between you slowly. You forget what it's like to breathe. or think, as her mouth presses ever so lightly against your own. Her hair brushes against your cheeks as she tilts her head, the soft press of her tongue slides against yours. You hear a moan, and are surprised when you realize it's coming from you. But when she returns the sound you melt into that kiss. 

You shift your weight, pushing her down to the bed, riding her to the mattress in a slow, controlled motion. Her hand skips down your back as you taste her. The feel of her thighs wrapping around your hips sends electricity running to all the places that you like. 

“Wow,” you whisper when you finally manage to pull away. 

“I've been wondering.” She takes your hand, bringing your fingers to her lips, kissing the tip of each one in succession. “That heat that you give off when you do your projections...can you do that anytime?” 

The weight of her words hits you like a hammer. “Well, there's really only one way to find out.”


End file.
